The City of Mirrors
Page 76

“Publishing, where else?” She leveled her gaze at me. “You know, I had the biggest crush on you. I’m talking major. A lot of the girls did.”
I realized she was drunk, making such a confession without even telling me her name.
“Miss—?”
She moved to the stool next to mine and extended her hand. Her nails were perfectly manicured, painted to match her lips. “Nicole.”
“It’s been a long night for me, Nicole.”
“I could sort of tell, the way you put away that Scotch.” She touched her hair for no reason. “What do you say, Professor? Buy a girl a drink? It’s your chance to make up for that C.”
She was plainly amusing herself, a woman who knew what she had, what it could do. I glanced past her; just a handful of other people were in the room. “Aren’t you—?”
“With anyone?” She gave a little laugh. “Like, did my date step out for a smoke?”
I felt suddenly flustered; I hadn’t meant the question as a come-on. “I mean, a pretty girl like you. I just assumed.”
“Well, you assumed wrong.” With the tips of her fingers she picked a cherry from her glass and raised it slowly to her lips. Her eyes locked onto my face; she placed it on her tongue, balancing it there for a half second before popping the stem and curling the red meat into her mouth. It was the hokiest thing I’d ever seen.
“Don’t you know, Professor? Tonight I’m all yours.”
—
We were in a taxi. I was very drunk. The cab was bouncing through narrow streets and we were kissing like teenagers, drinking each other’s mouths in furious gulps. I appeared to have lost all volition; things were simply happening of their own accord. There was something I wanted, I didn’t know what. One of my hands had found its way up her skirt, lost in a feminine country of skin and lace; the other was lifting her buttocks toward me, pulling our hips together. She unlatched my trousers and eased me free, then dropped her head to my lap. The cabbie glanced back, said nothing. Up and down she went, my fingers entwined in the lush mane of her hair. My head was spinning, I could hardly breathe.
The taxi halted. “Twenty-seven fifty,” the driver said.
It was like being splashed by cold water. I hurriedly rearranged myself and paid. When I exited the car, the girl—Natalie? Nadine?—was already waiting on the steps to her building, smoothing down the front of her skirt. Something loud and large was rattling overhead; I thought we might be in Brooklyn, near the Manhattan Bridge overpass. More grappling at the door and she pushed me away.
“Wait here.” Her face was flushed; she was breathing very fast. “I have something to take care of. I’ll buzz you in.”
She was gone before I could object. Standing on the sidewalk, I tried to reassemble the order of the night’s events. Grand Central, the hours of hopeless waiting. My desolate walk through the icy streets. The warm oasis of the bar, and the girl—Nicole, that was it—smiling and moving closer and putting her hand on my knee and the two of us making our hasty, inevitable exit. I could remember these things, yet none of them seemed completely real. Abandoned in the cold, I felt a rush of panic. I did not want to be alone with my thoughts. How could she have done it? How could Liz have left me standing there, train after train? If the door didn’t buzz soon, I knew, I would literally detonate.
A few agonizing minutes passed. I heard the door open and turned in time to see a woman emerge from the building. She was older, heavyset, perhaps Hispanic. Her body, buried in a bunchy down coat, was hunched against the wind. She had failed to notice me standing in the shadows; I slid behind her and grabbed the door just before it closed.
The lobby encased me with its sudden warmth. I scanned the mailboxes. Nicole Forood, apartment zero. I descended the stairs to the basement, where a single door awaited. I knocked with my knuckles, then, when no one responded, with my fist. My frustration was indescribable. My feelings had annealed to a pure desperation, almost like anger. My fist was raised again when I heard footsteps inside. The complicated unlocking of a New York apartment door commenced; then it opened just enough for me to see the girl’s face on the other side of the chain. She had taken off her makeup, revealing an otherwise plain face, flawed by traces of acne. Another man would have understood the meaning, but my agitation was such that my brain could not compute the data.
“Why did you leave me?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea. You should go.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her face was as rigid as a blind man’s. “Something’s come up. I’m sorry.”
How could this be the same girl who had laid siege to me in the bar? Was this some kind of game? I wanted to blow the chain off its anchors and burst through the door. Maybe that was what she wanted me to do. She sort of seemed the type.
“It’s late. I shouldn’t have left you out there, but I’m going to shut the door now.”
“Please, just let me warm up for a minute. I promise I’ll go after that.”
“I’m sorry, Tim. I had a good time. Maybe we can do it again sometime. But I really have to go.”
I’ll admit it: part of my mind was computing the strength of the chain that held the door. “You don’t trust me, is that the reason?”
“No, that’s not it. It’s just—” She didn’t finish.
“I swear I’ll behave. Whatever you want.” I offered a sheepish smile. “The truth is, I’m still a little drunk. I really need to sober up.”